


The Difference

by everytimeyougo



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-07
Updated: 2010-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-07 02:43:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everytimeyougo/pseuds/everytimeyougo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You knew from the start a relationship with her could only end in disaster.  You've never been one for making good choices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my friends athousandsmiles and jesmel for talking me into attempting this challenge, for providing beta and sounding board services, and for just generally being awesome. Without them this story would not exist.
> 
> Some wonderful artists have made art to go with this story, so be sure to check them out. Thank you so much to all of you!
> 
> [](http://community.livejournal.com/house_bigbang/32221.html#cutid1)  
> by [](http://vicodin_martini.livejournal.com/profile)[**vicodin_martini**](http://vicodin_martini.livejournal.com/)
> 
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> by [](http://housecam379.livejournal.com/profile)[**housecam379**](http://housecam379.livejournal.com/)
> 
> [](http://community.livejournal.com/house_bigbang/35811.html)  
> by [](http://coffeesuperhero.livejournal.com/profile)[**coffeesuperhero**](http://coffeesuperhero.livejournal.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> The lyrics quoted at the beginning of each chapter are from _Sober_ by Tool.

~Spring, 2005~

_There’s a shadow just behind me_

_Shrouding every step I take_

_Making every promise empty_

_Pointing every finger at me_

 

“Race you to the car!” She laughs as she bounds away and you can’t help but share in her enthusiasm. It’s contagious, as any infectious disease guy could tell you, and even an old curmudgeon like yourself is not immune. A smile pulls at your lips as you take a moment to admire the curve of her ass encased in dark washed denim before following her at a fast walk, the closest you can manage to a run. Your legs are long, so it’s good enough, and you arrive at the car close behind her. Even the pain that rips through your thigh at the exertion isn’t enough to erase your rare good mood, and so you toss a couple of pills down your throat, hoping she doesn’t notice as she searches through her purse for something. Surely she’d have something to say about mixing painkillers with the couple of beers you shared earlier.

But notice she does not, and so you open the passenger door for her and then settle yourself behind the wheel.

You’re not ready for the night to end and so you drive around aimlessly for a time listening to her happy, tipsy chatter about the colourful trucks and the even more colourful people who were seated around you on the bleachers. Classic rock plays softly on the radio and you watch her from the corner of your eye while you drive. She looks so different in casual clothes. Not older exactly, but without the vivid contrast between her youthful appearance and her professional attire, the age difference seems less daunting and you feel attracted to her in the way of a normal red-blooded male, and not as a creepy old man.

She slyly, or so she probably thinks, tosses a few more personal questions your way and you answer them with only token protest. You find you _want_ her to know you. Or, parts of you anyway, and not only the parts below your belt, though they are certainly interested as well. You ask a few questions of your own, partly to steer her away from your life and partly because you’re finding you want to know her too.

The sun sets with a weak show of pink and red while you’re driving, reminding you of other nights spent riding in cars with girls, looking for places to park and neck. You cringe inwardly at the old fashioned expression and wonder briefly if she even knows what it means. You don’t dare ask; the question itself is an invitation you’re not entirely prepared to issue. So, you flick your headlights on, make another random turn, and listen to her med school reminiscences with half your mind, while the other half wonders what comes next.

Minutes and miles pass. Eventually she notices you’re driving in circles and questions your intentions in a tone of voice that is infused with equal parts confusion and flirtation. You make a decision in the split second it takes her to run her tongue along her full bottom lip. You didn’t lie before; it really wasn’t intended to be a date. But now, you think, maybe it’s become one. Shrugging your shoulders you turn your car in the direction of her apartment.

When you arrive, you don’t wait for an invitation. Instead you turn off the ignition, open the car door and silently follow her inside. The instant the elevator doors slide closed you have her pushed up against the back wall. It should have taken her by surprise, but somehow you don’t think it did. Her hand is at the back of your neck pulling your head toward her in the same instant that your hands land at her waist. You lean down to capture her lips with yours and she meets you halfway with more passion than you would have imagined possible from your reserved immunologist. You obviously don’t know her as well as you previously thought. Perhaps it’s time to change that.

The elevator doors slide open just as you’re slipping your hand under her top. She bats you away playfully and sashays down the hall, not even pausing to make sure you’re following. You grin at her newfound confidence. You should say something to knock her off balance, partly to regain the upper hand and partly just for the fun of it, but you don’t. Don’t even want to really. You feel like you’re high, and maybe you are, just a little, but it’s good because the combination of the pills and the woman and the beer and the exhaust fumes have all led to this and it’s been a really, really long time coming. She looks back at you from over her shoulder just before she unlocks her door and disappears inside. You add another little white friend to the collection in your belly and follow.

***

You know you’ve fucked up before you even open your eyes. Your leg and your head are competing to see which one can bring you the most pain and something you suspect is her hair is tickling your nose. Through sheer power of will, you manage not to sneeze because the last thing you need is for her to wake up before you can come up with a viable escape plan. Holding your breath, you listen carefully for signs that she may be awake. Only when you’re positive she’s not do you finally open your eyes. There’s no clock within view of where you’re lying but the pale light coming from between the slats of the window blinds tells you dawn is approaching. You’ve been asleep maybe three hours, four at the outside. You’re too warm and the bed is too soft and an all-encompassing sense of wrongness pervades the air. Or maybe it’s just inside you, but either way, the need to flee threatens to overwhelm you and you feel on the verge of a panic attack. You close your eyes again and try breathing as deeply as you can without moving.

The memories of the night before are vague but you know there was sex interspersed with alcohol, and pills taken only when you knew she wouldn’t see. You’re pretty sure she didn’t realize exactly how under the influence you were by the time the two of you finally fell asleep. The fact that she had been drinking too was probably your saving grace. But, mood-altering substances aside, you’re not really sure how you let it happen. You knew better. You _know_ better. She’ll only end up wanting more from you than you can give. You open your eyes again and turn your head slightly to discover that she’s facing away from you. Her tangled dark hair is everywhere, flowing down over her naked shoulders and landing on your pillow. The sight of her brings back visions and sounds and feelings from the night before that manage to calm you somewhat, but the need to get away persists. It’s too claustrophobic in to think.

Luck is with you for once and you are able to get out of bed and dress without waking her. Glancing back at the rumpled bed and the woman in it, for a moment you allow yourself to imagine her rolling over to face you. In your mind’s eye, her lids flutter open and she smiles up at you while pulling the covers back. Patting the bed beside her, she beckons to you with a look of such love in her eyes that it steals your breath.

That could be your life. It’s all right here in front of you; you just have to open up enough to let it happen. You picture yourself walking over to the bed, taking her hand and leaning down to kiss her. She wraps her arms around your neck and pulls you down into the bed. You tumble in and laugh as you tangle yourself up in her.

But, you sadly realize, that version of you doesn’t carry a cane. That version of you isn’t an addict. That version of you probably won’t end up ruining her life.

You turn away from the imaginary scene, your vision blurring slightly. That version of you doesn’t exist, can’t exist, and for the first time in a very long time, you wish he did. Seems it’s not only her that would end up wanting more than you can give.

Pulling a vial of pills from your pocket, you swallow two. And then you leave without looking back.

***

Avoidance becomes your middle name and you don’t ever speak of your night together. You don’t really know what to say, so you’re prepared to just wait for her to bring it up. You’ll then explain what a bad idea it was in such a way that she’ll never mention it again. Problem is, she never does bring it up, although on more than one occasion, you suspect she’s about to. For reasons known only to herself, she always changes her mind. You don’t really understand; she always struck you as a ‘let’s talk about our relationship ad nauseam, ad infinitum’ type of girl, but since this way actually works better for you, you leave it be.

For several weeks the two of you operate as though you’re existing a half dimension apart – able to see each other, but not interact unless the universe or Cuddy forces you to. You both do your jobs. She participates in differentials, but you don’t mock her theories, just agree or disagree as necessary. And when you do disagree, she doesn’t argue further and simply accepts your opinion for the fact that it is. There are no looks that last a little too long. There are no inappropriate jokes. The fact that no one seems to notice this at all speaks to the level of self-absorption of those around you. This does not surprise you in the least.

What is surprising, however, though perhaps it shouldn’t be given her tendencies toward martyrdom, is how quickly things get back to normal. The pessimist in you suspects the word ‘too’ should come before the word ‘quickly’ in that thought and perhaps things aren’t really normal at all. But, after a month or so, she’s smiling at you again. And she’s laughing at your jokes, and sorting your mail and arguing with you when she feels the need, and so you push your concerns aside. One can only exist in a state of high alert for so long after all, before the human tendency towards acceptance takes over. She enjoys your company; you, though you’re loath to admit it, enjoy hers. It’s only natural that when the immediacy of the situation faded, things would return to a state of equilibrium.

But, just as it does, a bigger worry arrives to take the previous one’s place - bigger both in severity and in just plain girth. The hospital is under new management. You, of course, have already managed to royally piss him off. And your team will pay the price – you have to get rid of one of them. Should have been an easy choice, given that Chase has seemingly turned on you, but that option has been taken from you. You’ll have to figure something else out. You close your door, don your headphones and attempt to formulate a plan.

***

What it comes down to is this: You need her help.

Vogler has presented you with a way to keep them all, but not without a price. He’s demanding you give a speech extolling the virtues of his new, but not really, ACE inhibitor. Fifteen minutes of your time. Twenty, tops. To say you don’t want to do it is akin to saying you don’t want to spend the rest of your life working in the clinic treating crotch rot and the sniffles. That is, you loathe the very idea of it. Fully and completely. It’s beneath you; you suck at writing speeches and you don’t particularly enjoy limping across a stage in front of dozens of idiotic doctors and drug reps so they can whisper to each other about your crappy reputation.

Of course, you’re going to do it anyway. What choice do you have? You need your whole team, not just a fraction of it. There are three of them for a reason – there’s a science behind it, both in the selection of their specialties and their personalities. And you’ve worked hard to mould them into the finely tuned machine they currently are. Or were, before this mess began and they started turning on each other. Each of them has a part to play, and they are all, _all,_ essential. Beyond that, the thought of losing any one of them because of a fucked up situation like this, that is no fault of their own, rankles you. They’re all damned good doctors and they don’t deserve this. You’re not a sentimental man, never have been, but this is just wrong. You’ll do what you can to stop it.

Never let it be said you’re not a team player. Or a masochistic sonofabitch. Six of one, half dozen of the other...

But you’re not so masochistic that you’re going to write the damned speech yourself. That’s where she comes in. If she wants to keep her job, and you’re certain she does, she’ll write it. You’re only grateful that sufficient time has passed between now and the Night You Lost Your Mind, as you’ve come to think of it, that she probably won’t connect the two situations. Because there is no connection. None. It’s not just her you’re fighting for.

***

The day before the convention, you’re at your desk trying not to crash your tiny virtual car into a tiny virtual wall when she walks through your door, all sober and downcast. She knows the score. The information packet Vogler gave you is laid out before you. You’ve read it; you’re not impressed. She won’t be either, but she’s moderately better at kissing ass than you are. Not as good as Chase, but he can’t write worth shit.

She raises an eyebrow when you gesture for her to close the door, but does so before turning and holding up her pager. “Yes?” she asks. “You rang? Do we have a new patient?”

“Nope,” you reply, making a popping noise at the end of the word like the demise of a tiny balloon. “We need to talk.”

She visibly deflates, becomes something small and insignificant before your eyes and you suddenly realize she thinks you’re talking about something else entirely. You momentarily hate yourself for doing this to her, but push the feeling aside and get down to business.

“Sit,” you instruct and you’re relieved when she complies without comment.

Picking up one of the pamphlets, you proceed to read it aloud. “Viopril inhibits angiotensin converting enzyme, or ACE, in human subjects and animals. ACE is a peptidyl dipeptidase that catalyzes the conversion…”

Looking confused, she holds up a hand to interrupt. “House! Stop. I know what an ACE inhibitor does. What is this about?”

“Ah,” you retort, “but how much do you know about Eastbrook Pharmaceuticals brand spanking new ACE inhibitor, hmm?” You tilt your head to the side and wait while she works out where she’s heard that name before. It doesn’t take long.

“Eastbrook Pharmaceuticals? Vogler’s company?” she asks cautiously.

“The very one.” You shove the pamphlets toward her. “Here, read these. Need you to write a speech about it.”

“A speech? What? House, I don’t know...I’m not really very good at public speaking, and...”

You roll your eyes at her. “Relax. Not for you. For me. I need you to write a speech for me to give at some boring conference so I can keep Vogler off my back and all you kiddies can keep your jobs.”

This clearly takes her by surprise. So much for the hospital grapevine. “You’re...you’re going to give a speech? For us? But, you don’t give speeches. I’m forever sending out regrets emails whenever someone invites you to give one. You said, and I quote, that you’d rather snack on glass bananas than give a speech to a bunch of dumbass wannabe diagnosticians who would already know everything you were talking about if they were any damned good. And this isn’t even a speech about diagnostics! It’s a...a commercial! You can’t do this! I can’t believe you’re even considering it!”

“And you say you’re no good at speeches.” She doesn’t react to your little witticism and so you shrug and ask her what other choice you have.

She doesn’t respond for a moment, but you can easily see the wheels turning. The screech is almost audible when they come to a halt, having made the connection you were hoping she wouldn’t. “Is this about...” she gestures into the open space between the two of you.

“No.” You cut her off before she can complete the thought. “Just write the damned speech. You’ve got ‘til tomorrow afternoon.” You rise from behind your desk, make for the door, and limp out of the room. You can still feel her eyes burning into your back from halfway down the hallway. You dig around in your hip pocket and pull out what you need to forget that feeling.

***

You’re lying on the couch watching television, a blanket draped over you and the cardboard remnants of your dinner on the coffee table beside you. Lately a lot of your nights are spent like this – at home, alone, watching TV and eating take out. There was a time you had some semblance of a life. You’d go to concerts, to ball games, to bars to shoot pool. Stacy sometimes forced you into attending more cultural events and while you enjoyed giving her a hard time, you usually enjoyed the event as well. Or maybe it was just the company you liked. Then, later, after you had healed as much as you were ever going to, Wilson would drag you out and make you face the world. Now that he’s married again, you have to drag him. More often than not, you just don’t have the energy.

Tonight, however, you wish you did, because sitting here with nothing to do but think about tomorrow isn’t helping anyone, least of all yourself. You’ve talked yourself out of doing the speech only to talk yourself right back into it so many times that you’ve succeeded only in giving yourself a pounding headache.

You reach out for the amber vial of pills on the coffee table and shake two out into the palm of your hand. Vicodin for a headache is surely overkill, but these days regular ibuprofen won’t even take the edge off. And anyway, your leg hurts too. It always does. You toss the pills to the back of your throat and swallow, chasing them with a gulp of coffee that has been cold for hours. You grimace and then slide lower on the couch, pulling the blanket up over your shoulders. The room feels like January, though it’s late April, and a shiver passes through you as you burrow your feet deeper into the warm blanket. You’re not quite sure why you don’t just go to bed, other than some vague, vain notion that going to bed before ten, even on a weeknight, is something only old people do. You flick through the channels twice before finally settling on something banal and mind numbing that you have no intention of actually watching.

You’re very nearly asleep when you hear the knock at the door. It’s so soft that had you been completely out you never would have heard it. It’s the kind of knock people deliver when they aren’t really sure whether they want the door to be answered at all. Even in your current groggy state, there’s no doubt in your mind who it is.

You struggle to your feet and almost fall on your face as your feet and cane get tangled up in your blanket. Cursing colourfully all the way to the door, you yank it open. Cameron, messenger bag slung over her right shoulder and a six-pack of Corona in her left hand, is standing there looking like she’s already regretting whatever screwed up thought process has brought her here. You raise your eyebrow and wait for an explanation.

“I finished the speech,” she volunteers. “I thought you might want it tonight. So you have more time to learn it before tomorrow night.”

“You thought wrong.” You wait for her to either continue trying to talk her way in or give up and turn away. She does neither; instead she smiles, shrugs, and pushes past you - an unexpectedly bold move. Traipsing straight into the living room, she deposits her encumbrances on your coffee table.

“Won’t you come in?” you invite sardonically. “You know, you could have just emailed it to me.”

“Yes, well, I know how you like that personal touch.” She’s gathering up the remains of your dinner from the coffee table, nose wrinkled in distaste. You know you should help, but hey, you didn’t ask for her company or her maid service. Instead you help yourself to one of the Coronas.

“Where’s the lime?” There’s no way she brought a lime.

“In my bag.” Before you realize what she’s up to, there’s a green projectile flying at you. You have to drop your cane in order to catch it, but catch it, you do. “Why don’t you cut it up while I clean off the table?”

Leaning down to retrieve your cane, you bite down on a few unfamiliar tasting words of approval before they escape your mouth and you follow her to the kitchen.

***

The speech is well-written, thoroughly researched, complimentary towards Vogler and his company, and she absolutely does _not_ want you to give it. Instead, she wants to sacrifice herself.

“I can get another job easily, House. Believe it or not, having worked for you lends my resume a certain cachet.” Glancing up at you, she rolls smiling eyes. “I have no idea why.” She’s sitting shoeless and cross-legged on the couch beside you, having made herself comfortable while you were reading. Her appearance is a study in contradictions. From the neck up, she’s Dr. Cameron through and through with her hair in a tidy bun; a pencil tucked behind her ear; discrete, tasteful earrings; and the same understated makeup she wears at work. But the rest of her is...who? Allison? Ally? Just plain Al? You realize you have no idea what form of her first name she prefers, but anyway, the rest of her is someone you’re unfamiliar with, dressed for comfort as she is, in grey workout pants and a worn, black t-shirt emblazoned with the logo of a metal band you would never have expected her to know about, let alone like.

“Smart ass,” you reply, after swallowing a mouthful of citrusy beer, because you appreciate her effort at lightening the mood. Doesn’t mean you’re going to let her follow through on her plan though. You’re giving the damned speech. You reach over and pull the pencil out from behind her ear – why do you find that incredibly hot all of a sudden? – and begin crossing out words here and there and changing them to ones that sound more like something you might say.

“This drug,” she goes on, after looking askance at the pencil, “it’s virtually identical to Eastbrook’s previous ACE inhibitor. On which, coincidentally, the patent is just about to run out. It’s just a cash grab, House, on the backs of the patients. You can’t get up there and endorse that!”

“Is the drug any good? Does it do what it’s supposed to?”

“Well...yes.”

“Then it’s not compromising patient care?”

“Well, no. But...”

“I’m giving the speech, Cameron. Eastbrook makes some money; the insurance companies lose some money. Life goes on. No biggie.” You manage to sound a good deal firmer than you feel. Fact is, you agree with her one hundred and twenty percent. There is a knot in your stomach the size of a golf ball and no matter which option you consider, it’s only getting bigger. When you think about giving the speech and compromising one of the few positive traits you’ve got going for you – your integrity – it grows to the size of a baseball. But when you consider not giving it and losing Cameron – because that’s the choice now; she’s not going to let you fire Foreman – the knot morphs into a football, with pointed ends jabbing at your insides.

You pull off your reading glasses, toss them on the table, and then scrub at your face with your hand. “Look, it’s not an ideal solution. In fact, it’s a piss poor one. But it’s the only one we’ve got right now.” She opens her mouth to continue arguing but you reach over, cover it with your hand and continue. “It’s the only one we’ve got _right now_. We’ve still got most of tomorrow to come up with something that doesn’t involve anyone hawking overpriced drugs or anyone quitting. Have a little faith, will you?” She nods and you remove your hand.

It’s a stall tactic, plain and simple. You know there’s nothing else you can do. Vogler is not going to change his mind. You don’t have enough influence with the board to oust him; actually you don’t have any influence at all. You’ve got a private investigator trying to dig up blackmail dirt, but that’s a Hail Mary pass at best. But what you don’t want her doing is going in tomorrow and quitting.

The two of you descend into silence, lost in your own thoughts as you pretend to study the speech and she stares off into space.

“Well,” you say finally. “It’s getting late.” And, you realize, it is. It’s nearly midnight.

She agrees, rises, and collects her belongings. You unthinkingly walk her to the door and then instantly regret it. It’s awkward; you don’t know what to say, what to do, when you get there. You should’ve stayed on the damned couch where you wouldn’t be tempted to kiss her goodbye, because that’s what guys do when they walk women to doors. Especially women they’ve slept with.

She reaches out, touches you on the arm. “You know what?” she asks. “I love my job, I really do. And I don’t want to give it up. But, if it comes to that, there could be an upside to me not being your employee. To you not being my boss. Just think about it.”

A quick smile and her fingers trail down your arm, grazing your hand before dropping away. And then she’s gone.

And you do think about it. You think about it while you prepare for bed, as you brush your teeth, when you strip off your jeans. You think about it while you swallow the one last Vicodin for the day that should hopefully allow you to sleep. You think about it for a long time, but it’s all pointless, because the employer/employee factor was never really the problem.

***

Your intentions are good. When you get up there on the stage in front of everyone, and unfold the speech Cameron wrote for you, you fully intend to deliver it. She’s out there in the audience. They all are: Wilson and Cuddy, Chase and Foreman, other various and sundry colleagues and acquaintances. But she’s the one you look at and she’s the one who gives you a little smile of encouragement. To encourage you to do what, you aren’t entirely sure, because while you spent the entire day preparing to save her, she spent the entire day telling you why you shouldn’t.

In the end, she both wins and loses, because it turns out you can’t do it. You’re up there onstage in front of a hundred people and you just...can’t. You can’t compromise your ethics, as eccentric as they may be, not for Vogler, not for your team, not for Cameron. She already knew that; you should’ve listened to her in the first place and saved everyone some trouble.

You try to escape after a quick sentence or two, before you can do any irrevocable harm, but Vogler, obviously not knowing who he’s dealing with, baits you into going back to the podium.

His mistake.

What happens immediately afterwards is mostly a blur of shocked and angry faces, hotel hallway and darkened parking lot. You brush past Vogler and the other panellists and head immediately for a side exit. The minute you’re outside, your hand is in the pocket of your freshly dry-cleaned suit jacket, pulling out your pills. You’re shaking so badly at first that you can’t open the bottle, so you lean up against the cold red brick of the building and force yourself to calm down. After a minute or so, you’re able to get two pills out of the bottle and down your throat without choking on them. Then, you find your car and drive yourself home.

***

Your home phone comes to life twelve times within the space of an hour. Your cell, many more times than that. The rings sound like condemnation and you answer none of them. Instead, you sit at your piano, picking out bits of random songs and waiting to see who will be the first to arrive at the door. You’re too numb just now, or maybe too stoned, to berate yourself for what you’ve done. There’ll be time enough for that later, in the unemployment line, because you have serious doubts whether _you’ll_ even have a job after this, never mind your team. Tenure or no, a man like Vogler won’t take humiliation of the sort you dished out tonight lying down.

The knock at the door you’re expecting isn’t long in coming. You win a bet with yourself when you peer through the peephole to discover Cameron on the other side. Or maybe it wasn’t so much a bet as a wish, as she’s probably the one person you’re willing to let in at this point. You pull the door open and step back to allow her to enter.

“I’m sorry. I should have taken a couple of extra Vicodin and just held my nose,” you joke as she closes the door behind herself.

“I’m guessing you did take a couple extra Vicodin.”

“True.” That earns a small smile, but you can see she’s shaken. Of course she is. You’ve just turned her world upside down. She may not have been opposed to it, but that doesn’t mean she was entirely prepared for it.

“So, I guess this is it,” she says, her voice tinged with something that should be regret but probably isn’t.

“I could fire Foreman,” you offer.

She shakes her head, just as you knew she would. “No. He needs this more than I do. I’ll be fine House. So will you.”

You snort. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Just wait until his royal hugeness gets a hold of me.”

She gives another small smile and a shrug of reluctant agreement. Your eyes meet and lock in one of those strange moments of understanding you always seem to share with her.

You know she’s awaiting some sort of assurance from you, waiting for you to tell her that this isn’t over, that you’ll see each other again, but you can’t. You haven’t had time enough to process this. You don’t know what you want, other than you don’t want things to change. But that’s no longer an option and you don’t quite know where that leaves you. Or you and her. Things are too muddled right now and you’re not going to make her any more promises you can’t or won’t want to keep.

In the end, she just holds out her hand. “Goodbye, House. You know where to find me, if you want to.”

You transfer your gaze from her face to her hand and after a moment you grasp it reluctantly. Rather than shaking, she pulls you toward her until you’re mere inches apart. She rises up on her tiptoes and presses her lips softly and all too briefly to yours. Then, backing away only slightly, she completes the handshake and releases your hand.

You stand there and watch her leave without uttering another word.

Her last words to you echo in your mind. “_You know where to find me, if you want to.”_

You’re doubtful that will prove to be a good thing. For either of you.

***

Two interminable weeks later, the king is dead and you’re knocking on her door.

She opens it, breathless and sweaty, and you’re immediately reminded of the last time, the only other time, you were here. The faint flush on her cheeks makes you wonder if she’s remembering too, but then you catch a glimpse of the treadmill behind her and realize her current state has nothing to do with you. _Yet_, one part of your body amends, but you’re determined to ignore it. For now at least. You’ve got more pressing matters to discuss with her. If she’s hurt you haven’t contacted her before now, she shows no sign of it. Instead, she invites you inside.

“You can come back now,” you announce after following her in and closing the door behind you. “I saved all the mail for you.”

She turns to face you as her jaw drops open. “Excuse me, what?”

You roll your eyes and repeat yourself more slowly. “You...can...come...”

“Vogler is going to let you hire me back?” she interrupts, hands on her hips.

“Nope, he’s gone.” You walk over to her couch and settle into it, right arm draped across the back and feet up on the coffee table. You look around for a remote control before realizing there’s no television in view. You were too busy to notice that the last time. Who doesn’t have a television in their living room? You’re about to pose the question when you realize she’s staring at you impatiently, obviously not done with the previous subject. “It’s a long and boring story,” you tell her. “Someone will fill you in on Monday. It won’t be me; I’m giving myself electroshock therapy this weekend so I can forget the whole thing.”

“And you think I’m just going to come back as if nothing happened? What if I have another job?” she demands. She doesn’t. You know this because you’ve been ducking reference calls all week, hoping for a miracle. But she doesn’t need to know that.

“So, quit. Things can go back to the way they were.” Why is she being difficult? She should be thrilled. You’re starting to get impatient. Why can’t this be easy? You say come back, she says sure. The End. You slide your left hand into your pocket and play with the pill bottle inside.

“The way they were was kind of weird.” She sits down beside you. Very close beside you, and this, surprisingly, calms you. You missed her. More than you ever expected to. And you understand now where this is going and what she wants from you. You half-expected something like this and if that’s what it takes to get her to come back, you’ll push aside your misgivings and try to give it to her. It’s not even that you don’t want the same things, because right now, in this moment, you sort of do. Unfortunately, you also know yourself well enough to realize it won’t probably last. It doesn’t matter. You need her to come back. You need her.

“Weird works for me,” you reply, bringing your arm down from the back of the sofa to rest across her shoulders.

She looks up at you and nearly whispers, “Not for me.”

She goes on to haltingly explain she’s not willing to come back without a change in your relationship. It’s time for you to choose. All or nothing. She can be in your life both professionally and personally or you can never see her again. Those are the only choices. In the end, it’s not really a choice at all. You pull her closer and tell her all the things she wants to hear. You even mean most of it.

***

One night, after she’s been back for about a week, you take her to dinner. She wears a dress and you wear a tie and there’s small talk and pleasantries and you have to escape to the men’s room for chemical fortification before your waitress even approaches the table.

You order the puttanesca and she has the ravioli.


	2. Chapter 2

~Autumn, 2006~

_I am just a worthless liar_

_I am just an imbecile_

_I will only complicate you_

_Trust in me and fall as well_

 

It's late and you're drunk, though not nearly as drunk as you wish you were. You’re also alone, which is more common these days than it probably should be. As you swallow yet another mouthful of bourbon, it occurs to you that you don’t even know where she is. It’s late and she’s your wife; you should know where she is, but you don’t. And what’s more, you don’t really care.

_That’s a lie. Everybody lies._

It’s dark in the townhouse the two of you share, the same one you lived in for years before you met her. You sit on the couch in the living room. If she were home, there would be lights on, but alone you can’t be bothered. The darkness should feel oppressive for a man such as yourself, a man who has built a life on needing to see, to know, to understand everything. Instead it provides some small measure of comfort. There’s nothing here you want to see. The destruction around you is depressing. The darkness works to mask it, but still you know it’s there.

If she were home, she'd turn down the music. It's loud, sure, but not loud enough because you can still hear your thoughts. Your wife used to think you were a good man, in spite of the sarcasm, in spite of the selfishness, in spite of all the times you'd been anything but. She used to think she could see the real you underneath all the shit. She used to tell you as much.

She doesn’t tell you that much anymore.

Where is she anyway? Does she know what’s happened? Did she finally leave you? She should.

Maybe she’s accepted at last that whatever good she thought she could see in you was never really there. At best, it was a ghost of what you might have been if things had been different. If your father had loved you. If your own body hadn’t betrayed you. Or if whatever other excuse she could come up with for you had never happened and you were normal.

Gripping your thigh, you ease yourself down into a supine position. If she’s gone for good, you don’t know what you’ll do, but you do know you won’t try to stop her. She should have left a long time ago. She should’ve listened when you tried to warn her back when the two of you were just beginning.

_You order the puttanesca and she has the ravioli. It’s been a rough week. The patient’s cold blooded parents had hit far too close to home. And on top of that, the entire hospital now knows that the irascible old cripple is screwing the beautiful young ingénue. And it was all her fault. You asked her to keep her trap shut, but it was almost like she was proud of you or something. You’d been getting looks and snide comments all day. Wilson had razzed you unmercifully. Foreman had been disgusted and even Cuddy had to put her two cents in. It was embarrassing. And so you’re in a piss poor mood when the two of you arrive at the restaurant. You should’ve just cancelled, but you know she’s been looking forward to this, so you swallow an extra Vicodin and try to be civil. _

_That lasts all of ten minutes. _

_After struggling through some awkward small talk, you decide she may as well bear the brunt of the bad mood she helped to create. This is what a relationship with you is like after all, and isn’t that what she wants? _

_You don’t pull any punches and lay out every reason you can think of as to why this will never work. And you don’t do it kindly. Come the end of the evening, any other woman would have been history. But not your Cameron. She’s strong, stronger than you give her credit for sometimes. And she`s somehow able to counter every excuse you throw out there along with some you don’t. And she does it without raising her voice. By the end of the night she`s got you thinking maybe the two of you might have a shot after all. Maybe, you’ll just go with it. See what happens._

She did look beautiful in that dress.

You reach over and try to grab your glass of bourbon from the table, but your grip isn’t quite what you need it to be. The half-empty glass hits the floor and shatters with a crash that is barely audible over the throbbing acid rock. You don’t even have the energy to curse. It’s just one more mess in a room, in a life, full of them.

It was good for a time. You were, for you, happy. That old cliché about her making you want to be a better man makes you want to vomit, but there was more than a bit of truth in it as well. She gave you a reason to try to be human again. And, to your own immense surprise, it appeared to be working.

Then, like a bad penny, Stacy turned up.

_The sight of her hits you like a cement truck. You hate yourself for the anticipation that starts to build when she approaches and even more for the crash that comes when she utters the word “husband”. You get away as quickly as your dignity will allow._

_You’re teaching a class for the day as part of an ill-considered deal with Cuddy. Your team is currently without a case, so you’re mildly annoyed but not at all surprised when they wander in and claim seats in the back of the lecture hall. _

“_Three guys walk into a clinic. Their legs hurt. What’s wrong with them?”_

_Cameron catches on almost immediately. You can tell from the look on her face the moment she does, but she keeps quiet so as not to disrupt the class. Only when the students prove to be as moronic as your original doctors does she speak up._

“_Muscle death.”_

“_Not your case.” The absurdity of it all is killing you. Your new girlfriend proving she could have saved you, while your old girlfriend, the one who ruined you, waits outside for you to save her husband._

“_Nothing wrong with a consult.” _

_No, you suppose, nothing at all._

Prior to that day, had anyone asked you, you would have sworn you were over her. You didn’t think Stacy had anything left to offer you. Nor you, her. You didn’t even think about her anymore, not only because it was easier that way, but because you had no reason to. You had Cameron.

That was until you saw her. The revelation of just how very wrong you had been left you stunned and breathless. Whatever had existed between you was far, far from over and as much as you hated her for it, it wasn’t nearly as much as you hated yourself.

Two weeks after her sudden reappearance, you insisted Cameron move in with you. It had very little to do with her and everything to do with showing Stacy that you were doing just fine without her.

And it worked too. Stacy was jealous, which you didn`t realize was your goal until it happened. It was heady as hell to have that kind of power over her again and despite your best efforts, all the old feelings came flooding back. You tried ignoring them, tried fighting them, and then, after awhile, you didn't try anymore.

Your CD ends and the room is left in deafening silence. Probably you should get up and try to restore some sort of order to your home before she returns. If she returns. In your struggle to get off the couch, your bare left foot lands on a shard of glass. Your good leg. Just fucking great. The blood flows freely onto the whiskey-soaked rug leaving your already trashed living room looking like nothing so much as the scene of a violent crime. You look around for something to stem the flow but find nothing within reach. So instead you drop back down on the couch, pull your t-shirt over your head and press it to your bloody foot.

_You meet her coming out of the patient’s room, splattered with his blood. His infected blood. You fight down the panic that starts to rise and hustle her off to the showers. Once there, you lock the door and start stripping her down. All the while, she’s trying to reassure you. _

She_ is trying to reassure _you_. _

“_House, the chances of me being infected are slim. I’ll take the prophylaxis. I’ll be fine. Really.”_

_You know this of course, but still you shove her into the steamy hot shower with a curt command to use lots of soap._

_Then you sink down onto a nearby bench and cradle your head in your hands. _

The memory of how powerless you felt that day, sitting on a bench in a steamy shower room with the smell of fear and antibacterial soap in the air; the protectiveness that drove you to intercept the results of her first HIV test so you could read it before she did and break the news yourself if it was bad; the weight that lifted from your shoulders when you opened the envelope and saw the word ‘negative’ - these were the things that gave you the strength to end it with Stacy.

Cameron never knew how close she had been to losing you. She still doesn’t know and if she ever so much as suspected, she hid it well. You wonder now, if maybe you should have just left her for Stacy way back then, because everything that's happened since has surely hurt her more than a simple broken heart ever could have.

The bleeding has slowed enough that you should be able to get to yourself to bed without leaving a trail of blood. You arrange your t-shirt on the floor in such a way that she won’t see the stains. She’s seen far too much of your blood soaked into carpet already.

_A stranger in your office, a smartass remark. A flash, a crack, and white hot pain like nothing you’ve ever known, and if there’s one thing you know, it’s pain._

_She’s at your bedside when you wake up, groggy and sore. Your neck hurts, and your side. But your leg, your leg...doesn’t. You’re weak, barely able to lift your arm, but lift it you do and slide it down to your thigh. You look up at her in amazement. There are tears in her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Did it work?” she asks you. “We gave you the Ketamine like you asked. It worked, didn’t it?”_

_There are tears in your eyes too as you return her smile and nod slowly._

You carefully make your way to the bathroom hoping to find a bandage of some kind, but the contents of the vanity and medicine cabinet are strewn about everywhere and you don’t have the strength to pick through the mess. Going into the bedroom you ease yourself down on the bed.

Before the shooting, you were shying away from the word love, didn’t think you really had it in you anymore, though you knew what you felt for Cameron was close. Afterwards, you were a new man in more ways than one. You felt whole again, physically and emotionally. The pain and the drugs were no more than distant, bitter memories of the kind that seem almost like something you’d read or watched in a darkened theatre and not something you’d lived through. The potential future you imagined back in her apartment the morning after your first night together was no longer an impossibility. You finally felt worthy of her.

“_Marry me.” _

“_What?” The stunned look on her face both saddens and frustrates you. What kind of man were you before that this would come as such as a surprise? And why does she think you’re still him?_

“_Marry me. I love you. You love me. We already live together. What’s the big deal?”_

“_The big deal? House you were shot. Your leg...your life has changed a whole lot all at once...I don’t think...”_

“_Cameron. I can carry you over the threshold. Me. I can carry you. Marry me.”_

And so she did. It was a small private ceremony in front of a judge. Wilson was your best man; her maid of honour was an old college friend she rarely spoke to and never saw, though she only lived in Manhattan. Cuddy insisted you take a week off for a honeymoon although you’d only been back at work for less than two. You spent it in a cabin in Maine, hiking in the woods and making love outside under the stars. The morning you were scheduled to leave, you awoke to an old, familiar ache in your leg.

Your foot is throbbing, but at least it’s a distraction from the razor blades slicing through your thigh. There are no painkillers remaining in the house; they even took Cameron’s Ibuprofen. Whatever relief the bourbon provided has seeped away with your blood into the rug. You lie back on the bed and close your eyes.

_Your morning runs have been getting shorter and shorter, but this time you’re determined to make it the full eight miles. You tie up your sneakers, grab your iPod and kiss your wife goodbye._

“_See you at the office,” she calls after you as you close the front door._

_Your leg gives out on the first step and you end up sprawled across the sidewalk. The pain from the various scrapes you’ve gained, and even the pain from the leg that has betrayed you again, are nothing compared to the pain in your heart when your realize your running days are over once again._

_Somehow you pick yourself up off the ground and go back inside._

“_Leave me the fuck alone,” you snarl when she dares ask you what happened._

Your cane was pulled from the closet, your Vicodin habit was back in full force and your marriage was on the rocks before the ink on your licence was even dry. And then you had the misfortune to pull the chart of a cop with crotch rot and an attitude second only to your own.

Sleep should come easy tonight given how little of it you’d gotten the night before; jail cells are not made for the comfort of middle-aged cripples. But somehow you doubt it will. There are far too many knives hanging over your head, sharp and gleaming, ready to slice your life to ribbons. Part of you wishes she were here with you. Part of you is glad she’s not. All of you wishes none of this was happening at all. Rolling over on your side, you jab at the pillow under your head, trying to find some comfort.

_You walk out of the police station squinting at the bright sunlight. She comes up alongside you, neatly dressed for work, but looking like she hasn’t slept in years. Her eyes are rimmed with red and her expression screams anger and disappointment though she remains silent. You do not._

“_What the hell took you so long?” you snap._

_Her mouth drops open in indignation. “It’s not like we have fifteen grand just lying around, House. It took some time to get it together.” She stops and whips around to face you. “Why the hell didn’t you call me sooner? I was up all night, worried sick! I thought you were dead!”_

“_Sorry to disappoint,” you mutter, pushing past her. You’re pretty sure you have a bottle of Vicodin stashed in the glove box of her car._

You avoided her for the remainder of the day, interacting only when you had no other choice. She took the lead on the case, spending most of the day with the patient and you gladly let her have her distraction. She was still with the man when you called it a day and came home to find the asshole cop in your living room. That was at least five hours ago.

Finally, you hear a key in the lock and then the front door closes with a bang. You open your eyes seconds before the light in the living room comes on, sliding a glowing yellow triangle across the floor of your sanctuary. First you hear a gasp, which is quickly followed by a panicked voice calling your name.

“In here,” you call.

She comes into the bedroom, looks at you, looks back towards the living room and then back to you again. “What...what the hell happened?”

You sit up, swing your feet over the side of the bed and press your palms down into the mattress on either side of you. “Tritter was here.”

She lifts an eyebrow and you’re reminded that she doesn’t yet know who Tritter is. You only gave her the bare bones story of your arrest so she’d come in and spring you this morning. No details. No names. You sigh and begin to cobble together an explanation.

When you’re finished, there is fear in her eyes and that angers you. Fear implies _reason_ to fear which implies you’ve done something to deserve this and it might not just go away. It's not a possibility you're willing to consider.

“You need a lawyer,” she says at last.

“No shit,” you mumble, before lying back down and throwing one arm across your eyes to block out the light. You’re not in the mood for a state the obvious contest. You’re done with this conversation.

“What happened to your foot?”

You lift your arm for a second to look down and see your foot is still smeared with half-dried blood. “Broke a glass. Couldn’t find a bandage.” You close your eyes and your head hits the pillow again.

You’re almost asleep when you feel a warm washcloth gently wiping your foot. You don’t open your eyes.

***

She’s gone before you wake up the next morning. This is nothing unusual; she often is, even when you’re getting along fine. You’re never going to be a morning person and after the first few times you snapped at her for prematurely waking you, she stopped trying to convert you.

You emerge from the bedroom to find she’s cleaned up the disaster from the previous night. Most likely she did it right after you fell asleep. You weren’t intentionally leaving it for her, but you realize now that she probably wouldn’t have been able to sleep knowing it was out there. This realisation comes with a small pang of guilt, but it’s only enough to cause a minor ripple in your consciousness before being overwhelmed by the waves of pain emanating from your thigh.

There’s strong, hot coffee waiting for you in the pot and there’s a half empty bottle of Vicodin on the counter beside your mug. The bottle from her car, you realize. Gratefully, you toss two down your throat, and then one more for good measure. After pouring yourself a cup of coffee, you limp into the living room and sink onto the couch to wait for the pills to kick in before you go to work.

***

Over the next few days and weeks, the whole situation quickly spirals out of your control. When copies of your prescriptions reveal a number of forgeries, Wilson lies to cover your ass. Unfortunately, Tritter doesn’t buy it and before you know it, the bank accounts of pretty much everyone you’ve ever encountered are frozen. Tritter’s practically moved into the hospital, questioning everyone in sight, and now Wilson’s DEA number is suspended. And along with it, your source of painkillers. It shouldn’t be a problem, surrounded as you are by doctors, but the damned cop has everyone so spooked that no one wants their prescription pad tainted by your name. Not even your own wife.

***

When you’re down to two pills, you figure she’s got to be your best hope of getting some more.  After all, she claims to love you so it stands to reason she won’t want to see you in excruciating pain. It’s a delicate situation though, and it will take some finesse on your part to convince her to write you the scrip. She wasn’t pleased when she found out about the forgeries and she told you so in no uncertain terms. And while the two of you aren’t fighting anymore, or at least you don’t think you are, things aren’t all peachy keen either. She’s been very quiet. Too quiet, and you wonder sometimes just how thin the ice you’re on actually is. She didn’t even volunteer to come see the lawyer with you. Not that you wanted her there, because you didn’t, but you were surprised when she didn’t insist upon it. Truth be told, you’re more than a little annoyed that she’s shown so little interest lately in what’s been going on with Tritter. She seems to care more about how the situation is affecting Wilson than how it’s affecting you.

You find her in the women’s locker room, standing in front of her open locker fiddling with her hair. She prefers it up for work. You prefer it down. It’s been an ongoing, good-natured debate for as long as you’ve been together and is as good an opening as any. Coming up behind her and wrapping your arms around her waist, you lean down and kiss the back of her neck. She jumps but you hang on tight until you feel her relax in your arms.

“Hey,” she says and you can hear surprise in her voice at your unexpected show of affection.

“Hey yourself,” you reply between kisses, making your way up the back of her neck and over to her right ear. “Hair up does have a few advantages, but I’m still leaving my vote with hair down.”

You feel rather than see her smile. “And I still say you don’t get a vote. My hair, my choice.”

“But I’m the one who has to look at you. You only see it when you’re in front of a mirror.” You press your cheek against hers and check out your combined reflection in the little mirror stuck to the inside of her locker door. She looks tired. So do you. You stick your tongue out at yourself and she smiles at your foolishness.

“Are you trying to say I look _bad_ with my hair up?” she accuses, just playing along, not annoyed in the least. This is old, familiar territory and you both have your lines down pat.

“You never look bad,” you say, just as you’re supposed to. “Main reason I married you.” You turn her around and back her into the door of the closed locker beside her. She goes willingly and as you lean in to brush her lips with yours, she wraps her arms around your neck. This may be easier than you thought.

You kiss her in earnest and she responds so eagerly that you’re almost tempted to forgo your plan and just find the nearest room with a locking door. It’s been a long time. But, as you press harder against her, your leg cramps up. You hiss from the pain and she pulls away, concern written across her face. Just like that, the plan is back on.

You mumble an apology and stumble over to sit down on a nearby bench, pushing your hand hard against your thigh. No acting is required; the pain is real and scalpel sharp. She sits down beside you and replaces your hand with hers, massaging your leg in the way she knows you need. Her small hands are deceptively strong.

“Are you completely out?” she asks quietly.

“Two left.”

Your eyes meet and you can see your own agony reflected back in them. She’s wavering. You don’t know if it’s because she still loves you in spite of the disappointment you’re sure your marriage has been, or if it’s because she still can’t stand to see anyone in pain, but for your current purposes, it’s irrelevant. She’s going to write the scrip. You’re sure of it.

And then she looks away.

Still massaging your leg, she suggests that maybe it might not be a bad idea to consider some other options for pain relief. She tells you she’s become increasingly concerned about the amount of Vicodin you’ve been using since the Ketamine failed, and with this court case hanging over your head, it might be a good time to get some help.

As she’s telling you she knows it will be hard, and promising to be there with you every step of the way, a raging beast is coming to life inside your gut, gnashing its teeth and snarling to be let loose. She knows nothing. Nothing about your pain, nothing about what you have to deal with on a daily basis, nothing about you. Nothing.

You roughly shove her hands away from your leg, stand and begin pacing around the locker room. Words fly like daggers from your mouth as she sits there in stunned silence. You accuse her of not understanding you, of treating you like some kind of charity case she needs to help. You tell her you never should have married her; you should have left her for Stacy back when you had the chance. You wonder aloud if maybe she’s colluding with Tritter to have you locked up. By the end of it, you’re just making shit up, aiming your words to the areas of her psyche where they will cause the most damage.

At some point in the middle of your tirade, she returns to stand in front of her locker. You come up behind her to continue berating her, but she could be deaf for all the reaction you’re getting. It only makes you try harder, yell louder. She continues putting things in her bag, not reacting at all. When she’s finished, she turns around and faces you. There are tears streaming down her face. You stop, mid sentence, stunned and horrified at what you’re doing. She meets your eyes, just for an instant, and then walks quickly from the room.

You return to the bench and just sit there for a long time, trying not to be sick. Then, you go see Cuddy and she writes you a prescription.

***

Later you apologize, in your own roundabout sort of way, and Cameron forgives you because luckily for you, that’s the sort of woman she is - forgiving, even when she shouldn’t be. If the situation were reversed, you probably would never have spoken to her again. She’s had to put up with so much shit from you over the years. Too much and you reiterate to yourself often the promise you’ve made her. When this is all over, assuming you’re not in jail, you’ll make it up to her. Somehow.

But over doesn’t seem to be coming anytime soon. In fact, things are getting steadily worse. Wilson rats you out to Tritter and they strike some sort of deal that involves you going to rehab. Cameron, of course, is all for you taking it, but you just can’t bring yourself to do it.

You need your Vicodin. You don’t deny that you’ve become physically dependent upon it - you’re not an idiot and the withdrawal symptoms are unmistakeable. But it’s not as though you’re some kind of junkie on the street, robbing people at knifepoint to get money for a fix. You function perfectly fine, thank you very much, as long as you have the means to keep your pain under control. You’re not hurting anyone or anything, except possibly your own heath, but a shorter lifespan is a sacrifice you’re willing to make in order to have some sort of quality of life now.

Cuddy has kicked you out of the hospital in an attempt to blackmail you into accepting the deal. Fucking bitch cut off your Vicodin supply as well, from not nearly enough to none at all. Withdrawal has hit, and hit hard.

You’re sitting on your couch, alone in the semi-darkness, with a knife in your hand. It was a wedding present, from Cuddy you think, or maybe Wilson - definitely one of the two. It’s part of a set and Cameron keeps them on display in a wooden block on the kitchen counter. This is quite possibly the first time you’ve laid hands one of them. It looks sharp. Sharp is what you need. You run your finger over the business end of the blade. A slight twinge of pain and a tiny bead of blood appears. This should work nicely.

When you’re done there are five evenly spaced cuts on your left forearm and blood is dripping down your arm and onto the towel in your lap. You have a new appreciation for angsty teenage cutters because damned if this doesn’t make you feel just a little bit better. There’s a certain hypnotic beauty in seeing the shiny steel blade of the knife bite into your flesh and watching the crimson blood rise to the surface.

You bandage the cuts loosely, just enough to keep the blood from getting everywhere, and lay back and close your eyes, concentrating on the throbbing of your arm.

That’s when you hear the front door open.

Shit.

You weren’t expecting her home in the middle of the day like this, especially given that the team is in the middle of a case. You don’t want her to see you like this, but you’re so weak at this point that there’s really nothing you can do but sit there and wait to see what she does.

“Oh, House,” she says, in a tone that you’d take as condescension if it were coming from anyone else. Coming from her, you know it’s a mix of sorrow and concern, fear and frustration. She drops her coat and bag and comes to sit beside you on the couch.

“What are you doing here?” you ask her, straightening up and trying to look better than you feel.

“I was worried about you, obviously. Cuddy told me she sent you home. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’re bleeding.” She grabs hold of your arm and starts peeling off the tape holding the bandage more or less in place.

You curse under your breath as the tape pulls off a strip of arm hair. She raises her head to stare at you. “House, these cuts are straight in a row. You did this on purpose.”

“Cutting releases endorphins. Endorphins relieve pain. Can you get me some pills?”

As you expected her to, she refuses. “You know I can’t.”

You do know. And strangely, it doesn’t anger you anymore. This isn’t her battle. You discuss the case while she finishes cleaning your cuts and bandaging your arm, but when she gets up to go, you grab her hand, reluctant to let her leave.

“I have to get back,” she says. “But I love you. You know that, right?”

“I know. I love you too,” you tell her, and you mean it.

Her eyes lock onto yours as she continues. “House, stop this. Please. Take the deal. Just...take the deal.” Her voice cracks, but her gaze doesn’t waver.

You don’t answer. You don’t know what to say.

***

She spends the night at the hospital with the patient. Somebody has to and it’s obviously not going to be you. You’re up all night, alternating between pouring alcohol in the cuts on your arm as a distraction from the pain and dry-heaving on the floor in front of the toilet. Selfishly, you wish she were here to help you, but realistically you understand Cameron’s need to not see you like this is stronger than your need for her to hold your hand.

The next morning, you clean yourself up as best you can and venture over to the hospital in hopes that someone will take pity on you and prescribe you some anti-nausea meds so you can at least stop vomiting. You wouldn’t turn down a scrip for Vicodin either, but you’ve pretty much given up any hope of that happening.

When you leave the house, your intentions are good. Maybe tomorrow you’ll even go talk to Tritter about the deal. But right now, you just need a little help getting through detox. Maybe with a little help you’ll be okay.

Your intentions are good.

***

Your intentions _were_ good.

If only Wilson weren’t the first person you saw when you walked into the hospital. If only you’d nodded politely and gone to find Cameron or even Cuddy. If only he hadn’t callously turned down your request for help. If only Zebalusky hadn’t picked today to kick off. If only you weren’t so goddamned _weak_. If only, if only, if only…

One pill left. It looks so lonely in there at the bottom of the bottle. You know how it feels and so you toss it down your throat and guzzle it back with the rest of your glass of whiskey.

Eventually, the desire to hide from what you’ve done and be in bed asleep when she gets home breaks through the haze that used to be your mind and so you try to stand.

***

When she arrives, you’re on the floor, lying beside a puddle of your own puke. You have no sense of how long you’ve been in this position, no real recollection of how you came to be there. The room is spinning; your mouth is dry as your Aunt Sarah’s turkey and tastes a million times worse. Your vision is so dim you can barely see her, but you can see well enough to recognize the devastation on her face. “The last time,” you try to tell her. The words are clear in your otherwise muddled brain, but all that comes out are inhuman croaks. You try again. “I swear this will be the one last time.”

She steps over you and goes into the bedroom. The door shuts with a bang and you close your eyes, letting the darkness wash you away.

***

When you wake up again, the room is completely dark, save for the coloured lights of the Christmas tree in front of the window. You're still on the floor, but she’s cleaned up where you were sick and there's a pillow under your head and an afghan shielding you from the winter chill in the air. Ignoring your screaming thigh and your aching head, you haul yourself to your feet and stumble to the bathroom to wash up. It’s Christmas morning and you're going to give your wife a gift. You're going to take the deal.

***

Bad becomes worse. Tritter knows about the Oxy. The deal is off the table. You’re going to trial. And then you’re going to jail. Merry fucking Christmas.

***

As your court date nears, you and Cameron are barely speaking. Or, more accurately, she’s barely speaking to you and you’re pretending you haven’t noticed that fact. After your last stunt with the Oxy screwed up the deal, she seems to have written you off completely and has wrapped herself up in work. She won’t talk to you about the trial, won’t talk to you about your marriage or her feelings, won’t talk to you at all unless it’s work related, and in that area she refuses to cut you any slack whatsoever. How does she expect you to concentrate on medicine when your entire life is falling apart?

Cuddy persuades you that the only way left to save your ass is to apologize to Tritter and convince him you’re serious about cleaning up your act. You really don’t want to go to jail, so you figure you’ll give it a shot. And when it comes down to it, your apology is very nearly sincere. You _are_ sorry. Sorry for the crap you’ve put the people around you through. Sorry for not being able to control your damned mouth. Sorry for yourself and your perpetually fucked up life.

But you’re not sorry for anything you’ve done or said to him and he knows it. He’s not interested in your words. He wants action.

Action. Something to make an impression. Something to show you’re serious.

You know just the thing.

A new year is as good a time as any for a new start and so a couple of weeks into January, you check yourself into rehab. It’s something you’d been pondering for awhile, ever since the incident with the Oxycodone. You’ll never admit it to anyone if you can help it, but thinking back on your actions that day scares the living crap out of you. All this time, you believed your own press; you were sure what you had was primarily a pain problem, not an addiction problem. But the facts don’t seem to bear that out anymore and you wonder if you’ve just been kidding yourself. You wish Cameron would talk to you. She’s the only one you could ever tell this kind of stuff to. But she won’t and so you only tell her about rehab when you’re in the elevator, about to try and change your life forever, and she’s being left behind with the doors closing in her face. What this says about the state of your marriage, you don’t even want to contemplate.

The first couple of days in the McDaniel Drug Rehabilitation Wing are hellish, not that you expected anything less. Even with medication, you’re vomiting all the damned time and whatever shit they’re giving you for your leg doesn’t deserve the title of painkiller. The counsellors, or whatever the fuck they are, expect you to actually talk to them. Participate. You’ve never been much of a joiner and you hate group therapy with a passion formerly reserved for clinic duty and asshole cops. But you do it. You take your useless meds, you talk to your therapist (sarcasm is a type of talk), and you try. You try to make this work.

Tritter comes to see you one day. Strolls right into art therapy, something you would actually kind of enjoy if you weren’t, well, _here_, and with a few words, he takes away any hope you had of this working. Your words mean nothing to him. Your actions mean nothing. _You_ mean nothing.

“People like you, even your actions lie,” he tells you. And maybe he’s right. You’re going to jail and even if you don’t, you’re going to screw up again eventually. What the fuck’s the point? And so, you approach the attendant, a Neanderthal with a lousy haircut, a guy whose very appearance screams _can be bought for less than a quart of cheap whiskey_.

“Hey,” you say sotto voce. “You interested in making a few bucks?”

***

It’s no surprise when Cameron doesn’t come to the trial. The only times she’d been to see you in rehab were when she wanted your medical opinion. At this point, you’re fully expecting to be served with divorce papers as soon as the trial is over. You’re also fully expecting to be in jail when you’re served. It’s going to make it difficult to avoid the process server.

You see her for the first time that day when you bail on the trial due to an emergency with the patient. It’s a handy excuse; you were itching to get away from that kangaroo court anyway. Your lawyer is not happy with you, but you don’t really give a shit. Your presence, or lack thereof, is not going to change the outcome of the trial.

As luck (good or bad, you’re not really sure) would have it, you’re afforded a few minutes alone with her. You bark orders at Chase and Foreman through a microphone and at her in person, but all the while you’re trying to think of what you can say to her that might make some kind of difference.

Just as you’ve decided that there isn’t anything, and you don’t deserve her support anyway, she speaks.

“I just heard you apologized to Wilson,” she says, quietly watching you.

“Detoxing. Didn’t know what I was saying.” Not true. You knew. And you weren’t detoxing, not by that point.

Taking you completely by surprise, she walks over, rises on her tiptoes and wraps her arms around your neck. The unexpected strength in her embrace, the sweet scent of vanilla in her hair, the feeling of her breath, warm and moist against your collarbone, all these things serve only to remind you of everything you’re about to lose. You throat tightens and the words you’d been searching for moments earlier leak from your mouth without conscious thought. You squeeze her tightly and whisper in her ear. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so, so sorry.”

And you are, you’re so incredibly sorry, and not only for what she thinks you’re sorry for.

***

A few hours later, it’s all over. Cuddy, of all people, lies for you. Case dismissed, but you’ve earned a night in the clink for contempt. It’s okay; you’ve been there before.

You just can’t believe it’s over.

When Wilson brings you your ‘rehab’ drugs; there’s no longer any reason to pretend and you gulp the Vicodin down greedily.

Not being an idiot, he calls you on it immediately, and so you lead him to believe you were faking the entire time. It’s easier to lie and be the man people expect you to be than it is to face your own failure.

Turns out, you should have thought that through just a little bit more.

Cameron rounds the corner, just as you’re smirking at Wilson and telling him nothing has changed.

The look of ruin on her face tells you she’s heard everything and it’s like a hard punch to your gut, the sudden, unanticipated wallop robbing you of air and bringing you to your figurative knees. She backs up a couple of steps, before turning and fleeing the room, her heels tapping out a sharp rhythm down the concrete hall. Somewhere in the distance, a door slams shut.

Wilson stares at the empty space she once occupied, and then, without looking at you, offers to go after her, bring her back so you can explain, but there’s no point. There is no explanation. It’s over.

Now, you can believe it.

***

She has a good chunk of her belongings out of your home before you even get out of jail the following afternoon. Within a week, her physical presence has been all but erased, though it will take a lot longer for the spectre of her to fade. You keep expecting to turn around and find her in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for dinner; or in the bathroom in front of the mirror, putting her hair up for work; or beside you in bed whenever you reach for her in the middle of the night. Something inside you breaks a little more every time she isn’t where she should be. You’d say it was your heart, but you’re not that maudlin.

_It’s your heart._

You’re actually home the night she comes to get the last of her books and you take this as a hopeful sign. Thus far she’s made sure to only be here when you’re not, so maybe it means something, her coming here now, when your car is parked out front and every lit window tells a tale of your presence.

You try to talk to her as she sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the bookshelf, tossing books in a tattered cardboard box. As you ramble, you note with distraction that even after two years of living together and nearly six months of marriage, all her books are all still on the bottom two shelves, never having become co-mingled with yours nearer the top.

You tell her you’re willing to go back to rehab, or go to marriage counselling, or do anything else she wants, if only she’ll give you one last chance.

She gives you a look of such sorrow, such desolation, that you know her answer before the words even leave her mouth.

Rising from her spot on the floor, she comes to sit beside you on the couch. She wraps her arms around your middle and rests her head over your heart. You close your eyes and slide a hand up her back and into her hair, savouring the feel of her for what is probably the last time. She tells you that, yes, you should go back to rehab, but you need to do it for yourself, not for her or anyone else, or it will never work. She says she’ll always love you and she hopes that someday you’ll love yourself enough to get some help, but until that day comes she just can’t live with you anymore. You don’t say anything because it’s a position you don’t understand at all. Isn’t getting help what you just said you’d do? What does it matter if you don’t love yourself? You love _her_.

Pulling away, she kisses you gently on the lips, folds the flaps over on her box of books, and leaves you alone in the world.

After she’s gone, you pull your bottle of Vicodin from the pocket of your jeans and set it on the coffee table in front of you. For a good half hour, you sit and stare at it. Then, finally, you pop the top and toss a couple down your throat.


	3. Chapter 3

~Summer, 2009~

_I just want to start this over_

 

“And that was it,” you finish, with far more flippancy than you actually feel. “The end of my marriage.” Slumping back in Nolan’s reasonably comfortable office chair, you tap your hands against the upholstered arms. “Next subject?”

A raised eyebrow is directed at you. “I don’t know that we’re quite done with this subject yet, are we Dr. House? Your wife was still working for you then, wasn’t she?” Nolan asks from behind his cup of coffee. “That must have been difficult.”

You close your eyes briefly. Yeah, she was still working for you then, though not for much longer. Difficult was one word for it. Torturous was another.

_From where you sit in your office, you can see her at the conference room table chatting with Foreman. She laughs suddenly at something he says and her grin lights up the room. But only briefly because when she catches you looking, the smile falls from her face and she looks back down at the book in front of her._

_She’s only pretending to read whatever it is. You can tell from the stiff way she’s holding her spine that what she’s really doing is counting off the seconds until she can safely leave the room without it seeming like your gaze has driven her off._

_You often wonder how long this will go on before she resigns. Unless she’s suddenly become a lot more cold hearted than she used to be, and you know that’s not the case, the current situation has to be just as painful for her as it is for you. You could have a word with Cuddy, get her promoted and transferred to another department, but you figure that’s her call, and besides, you’re just masochistic enough to not really want her to go._

_You glance back down at the journal you’ve been leafing through and something interesting catches your eye. You don’t even notice when she leaves some time later._

“Dr. House?” Nolan is looking at you impatiently.

“Oh, sorry. Drifted off there for a second. My life bores even me. Don’t know how you stay so interested in it. Where were we?”

“I asked you to tell me about how your separation affected your working relationship with your wife.”

“Oh, right. Look, is this really relevant? Cameron and I have been separated for over two years now, longer than we were ever together.” You toy with the thick gold band on your left ring finger.

“I’m just asking questions, Dr. House. We won’t know what’s relevant until you answer them.” He pauses. “You still wear a ring.”

It’s a statement, not a question, but you answer anyway as you jam your hand in your pocket. “I’m still married.”

“Does she?”

“Don’t know. Never noticed.” _Yes_.

“Two years is a long time to be separated without getting divorced.”

You shrug. “She’s never filed. Don’t know why. Don’t care, really. It’s not like I’m looking to walk down the aisle again.”

“There’s never been any chance of reconciliation?”

There could’ve been. She left the door open. Until you, being your usual self, forced her to slam it shut.

_You’re at your desk, tinkering with a new toy and trying to figure a way out of the mess you’re in when she enters your office. You can tell the moment you see her face that she’s been crying. The way she’s trying to be strong for you kills you. She shouldn’t have to be strong for you. This is getting out of hand and you don’t know how to stop it._

_She approaches you and you meet her half way, taking her into your arms, meaning to tell her the truth, but then her hands are touching your face and she’s rising on tiptoes to kiss you. You try to resist, you really do, because this is wrong in so many ways, but she feels so good in your arms, like she never left them, and you don’t know how to stop her, so you don’t._

_The syringe she pulls out should’ve been a wake-up call, but you just want her so damned bad that you stop her from jabbing you by giving her the information she needs. She tries to leave then, to go run tests, to go and try and somehow save your sorry life, but now that you’ve had a taste of her, it’s not enough. You convince her there’s time, you’re not going to die tomorrow, or even next week and you need her to be your wife tonight, not your doctor. You wait while she passes along the necessary information to the others, and then you take her home. Home._

You shake your head. “No. There was never any chance of reconciliation.” Maybe if you had really been dying, but then you hadn’t been, had you?

_The knocking and shouting wake her before they wake you and by the time you figure out what’s going on and move to stop her, it’s too late. She’s already opening the door to admit Foreman and Chase. The jubilation on their faces quickly spreads to hers as they inform the both of you that you don’t have cancer after all._

_She wraps herself around you, practically vibrating with joy, as they explain their processes and conclusions. Your mind races ahead to their diagnosis and goddamn it, no, this is all wrong. She’s gotten there too and her grin drops away, leaving confusion and uncertainty._

_This farce has gone on long enough. You have to end it and now. She’s going to hate you either way, but you can’t have her leaving here thinking you cheated on her._

“_I don't have neurosyphilis. It wasn’t my file,” you volunteer bravely, but really there’s nothing brave about what you’ve done._

“_You faked cancer?” Her voice is incredulous._

_Chase and Foreman have faded away and some part of your mind registers a closing door._

_Scrubbing your face with your hand, you attempt to explain. “They were going to implant a drug into the pleasure centre of my brain.”_

“_You faked cancer to get high?” Incredulity turns to anger._

“_No, not exactly...” you start, but it doesn’t matter because she’s no longer listening._

“_Cancer, House. You faked cancer! You know what I went through in my first marriage. The night I cried myself to sleep in your arms after telling you everything that happened, after telling you how I watched him _die_, were you thinking of ways you could use that knowledge to manipulate me?”_

_Does she really think so little of you?_

“_Goddamn it!” you explode. “This had nothing to do with you! You think I wanted you to know what I was doing? I tried to keep it from you. Tried to keep it from all of you, but no one in that fucking place is capable of minding their own goddamned business! You left me, Cameron! _You_ left _me_! I’m doing my damnedest to get past that and this was going to help. You can either be my wife and have a say in how I live my life and deal with my pain, or you can be my employee and keep your goddamned opinions to yourself. You can’t have it both ways!” You pace around the living room, wondering how everything got so out of hand._

“_You’re wrong,” she says quietly. “Those aren’t my only options. There is also hidden option number three. I can be neither your wife nor your employee.”_

_That stops you in your tracks._

“_What are you talking about?” you demand._

“_I quit. My official resignation will be on your desk in the morning.”_

“_Official resig... What do you expect me to do here Cameron?” you ask, struggling to rein in your temper and fearing that even now there’s too much of it evident in your voice. “You want me to apologize? You got it. I’m sorry.” You knew this was a possibility, her leaving, but fuck you don’t want it to be like this._

“_I don’t care what you do.” _

_Her eyes are brimming over with tears now, completely belying her not-caring, but she doesn’t say another word. She just goes into the bedroom for her belongings and then disappears into the night, leaving you standing alone in the dark._

“She, ah… She resigned a couple of months after we separated. I didn’t know this at the time, but she went home to Chicago for a few months until our boss lured her back with a promotion.” You laugh mirthlessly. “First time I saw her again, I thought I was hallucinating. Foreshadowing’s a bitch.”

_Once you’ve verified with HR that she is, in fact, back at work, you track her down on her new home court. Watching her work from the sidelines, you’re struck once again by just how beautiful she is. She looks different, blonder obviously, but it’s more than that. She’s matured so much in the last few years and there’s an air of confidence about her now that wasn’t there before. Or maybe it’s been there for awhile. Maybe it’s just been too long since you really saw her. The confidence, the cool professionalism, they’re not unattractive qualities, but y_ _ou wonder whatever became of the carefree young woman in jeans who loved monster trucks and cotton candy and had a smile that could break through even the thickest of brick walls. _

_Finally, she approaches you, holding up three fingers. “Three weeks. For someone who never misses something small, you missed something big.” And then, she smiles at you. And for the first time in nearly a year you feel something akin to peace._

***

You’re not a talker. Oh sure, you can ramble on for hours about medicine, or music, or any of your other various and sundry hobbies. And you can bullshit with the best of them, or deliver a dressing-down or crack wise all day long. But talk about yourself, your innermost feelings, your hopes and fears and disappointments? Like many men, you generally just don’t.

Nolan has this annoying, demanding habit of making you talk about all those things you don’t want to talk about. And not only talk about them, but _think_ about them and, in some ways, relive them. It’s not comfortable and you don’t enjoy it while you’re sitting there in the chair in front of him, but later, when you’re curled up in your narrow twin bed listening to Alvie mutter in his sleep (that kid, he literally _never_ shuts up), some of the memories you’ve dredged up make you smile.

Some of them make you cry.

The day after his father passes away, Nolan, quite understandably, takes the day off and Dr. Beasley makes it known during group that she’s available to talk to anyone who doesn’t want to miss their individual session. You surprise yourself by taking her up on it.

“You look like her,” is the first thing out of your mouth when she enters the room. “Act kind of like her too, with the whole sweet and caring bit, though she’s better at it. No offense.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“My wife,” you clarify.

“Oh?” she asks and so you pull a creased and worn photograph out of your shirt pocket to show her. It’s a fairly recent one you’d nicked from a pile on Cuddy’s desk one day, showing Cameron in all her blond-haired glory at some hospital function you hadn’t attended. She’s dressed to the nines, holding a glass of wine and smiling in a way that suggests she knows something you don’t, but maybe, if you’re very lucky, she’ll tell you all about it. You don’t know that Cameron very well, but you like her. And while you may not love her like you loved your Cameron, you think you could probably come to if given half a chance.

“You’re surprised. Surprised that someone like her,” you say, nodding at the picture, “would want anything to do with someone like me.” You smile at the floor. “So was I.”

She looks at the picture for a moment before handing it back to you. “No, not at all. You’re an attractive man, Dr. House. Intelligent. You’ve got a…unique…sense of humour. I’m sure many women would be interested in you.”

You wink at her as you tuck the photo back in your pocket and then watch for a few seconds as she tries not to squirm uncomfortably in her seat before you let her off the hook.

“Unclench. I’m not hitting on you. Nolan’s been grilling me about Cameron lately, so she’s been on my mind. You remind me of her. That’s all.”

“Do you want to tell me about her?”

You tilt your head and think about that for a second.

_You’re sitting in the chair in your office, the comfy yellow one she hates, watching the custodian install your new flat screen. She’s been with you for the better part of the day, the most time you’ve spent in each other’s company in over a year. It’s been…god, you don’t know what it’s been, but it’s been something. Something bittersweet, and all you know is you don’t want her to leave. You blather on a bit about the science behind not doing paperwork and then suddenly you’re telling her about how she must miss you._

_She doesn’t miss a beat. “You miss me. You hired Thirteen to replace me.”_

_“Yeah, yeah, yeah. All pretty girls are fungible. You’re avoiding.”_

_“I miss the job. I miss running around playing private investigator. I miss... the puzzles.”_

_“Seriously. I’ll fire Thirteen. Or Kutner, if you think Thirteen is hot.”_

_“I don’t miss you,” she says before giving you a sad sort of smile and leaving the room._

_And though you wish you didn’t, you believe her._

“Nope, I don’t think I do. Actually, I don’t feel much like talking after all. Sore throat.” You fake a loud, obnoxious cough. “Think I’ll go lay down.” Without waiting for a response, you limp from the room.

***

You can’t seem to get her out of your head. Memories come, unbidden and with only the slightest of provocations. The scent of flowers blooming in the gardens outside reminds you of the tiny bottle of expensive perfume she saved for special occasions. A movie they let you watch on TV one night brings back moments from your honeymoon in Maine. A song Annie’s sister-in-law plays on the piano is one she often requested you play so she could sing along, happily off-key. She’s the first thing you think about when you wake up in the morning and the last thing on your mind when you fall asleep at night. You’ve memorized every detail of the few pictures you have of her and you’re developing a blister under your wedding band from constantly twisting it around your finger. You didn’t even spend this much time thinking about her when you were together, for crying out loud. Which maybe, now that you think about it, might have been part of the problem.

It’s not like before, like the hallucinations, like when Amber was haunting you. You’re not seeing her; she’s not speaking to you, except sometimes in your (regular, normal, everyday, dream-like) dreams. But the damned memories just won’t leave you alone. Nolan has moved on to other topics, but no matter what he asks you about your traitorous mind finds a way to drag her into it.

The aftermath of the bus accident:

_You wake up briefly, groggy and in pain, unable to speak. She’s there, curled up asleep in a chair beside your bed, an overturned paperback in her lap and her reading glasses sitting on the small table beside her. You try to will her awake, will her to see you, but it’s no use. You’re asleep again within minutes._

_The next time you wake up, she’s gone and you’re pretty sure you only dreamed of her presence. Pretty sure, until Cuddy tries to make use of the same chair and almost sits on a small gold and diamond earring. You recognize it as one of a pair you gave her for her birthday the first year you were together. You claim you to have no knowledge of its owner, but snatch it from Cuddy’s hand anyway._

Your father’s death:

_When you and Wilson finally arrive at the funeral, the look of relief on your mother’s face at the sight of you almost makes the trip up worth it. You allow her to embrace you and when you scan the room over her shoulder, the first person your eyes land on is your wife, standing soberly in a corner, listening to your Aunt Sarah ramble on about something or other. You don’t know why you’re surprised to see her; she and your mother were always close and you knew they were still in touch._

_When the service starts, you’ve somehow, probably courtesy of your mother, come to be seated between her and Wilson. As you listen to various strangers drone on about what a good man he was, a small, comforting hand slides into yours and squeezes. You squeeze back._

_Later, you think maybe you’ll ride back to Princeton with her instead of Wilson, but when you go to find her, you discover she’s already left._

Kutner’s suicide:

_You leave his apartment following one final B and E committed while his funeral was in progress. It seemed a fitting tribute given how many times he’d committed the same crime on your orders and you imagine that somehow, somewhere, he approves. _

_Cameron’s words from earlier in the day echo through your mind as you pull away from the curb._

“_Suicide means you could have helped him. Murder lets you off the hook.”_

“_Kutner hid from everyone. You didn’t get a chance to save him. No one did.”_

_On autopilot, or so you tell yourself, you end up driving to her quiet residential neighbourhood and parking in front of her small yellow rancher. You don’t know what you’re doing there, not really, but maybe she does, as she doesn’t seem surprised to see you when she arrives a short time later. She gestures you inside and, without asking, makes you a cup of hot tea while you flip on a basketball game and drape yourself over her couch. You’ve never been to her new place before, her place without you, but you don’t mention it and neither does she. When you’ve finished your tea, you struggle to your feet and nod your thanks. She smiles sadly in return. As you’re leaving you realize that in the forty or so minutes you were there, neither of you had spoken a single word._

After stewing about it for several days, you finally summon the courage to bring up this Cameron preoccupation to Nolan. You tell him you’ve been thinking about her constantly, second-guessing decisions that were made and done with years before, debating potential alternate outcomes, wondering where she is, what she’s doing, whether she ever thinks of you.

When you look up, Nolan is smiling.

“You’re smiling. I tell you I’ve developed some kind of weird obsession with my ex-wife and you think it’s cute? What the hell kind of shrink are you?”

With an amused sigh, Nolan patiently explains the difference between an actual obsession and what you are currently experiencing. You don’t appreciate being spoken to like you’re three years old, but you are forced to concede the point when he asks about how you dealt with your break-up.

“Every time the pain started to surface, you took another Vicodin and shoved it back down. Correct?”

You shrug. Add in copious amounts of grain alcohol, a great deal of subordinate abuse, and some inappropriate flirting and it’s pretty much an accurate assessment.

“Now that those pseudo coping mechanisms have been taken from you, you’re having to deal with the end of your marriage the way other people do. By thinking about it. By rehashing what went wrong, so you can, hopefully, learn from the experience and avoid making the same mistakes again. By coming to terms with your grief, because it is a form of grief that we all experience when a relationship ends. It’s a good thing, Dr. House, even though it probably doesn’t seem like it right now.”

It doesn’t. It doesn’t at all. You shift uncomfortably in your chair as he continues.

“Which leads me to something else I’d like you to think about. A moment ago, you referred to Dr. Cameron as your ex-wife. That’s not strictly the case, though, is it? This limbo of separation you’re living in isn’t healthy. I think you need some kind of closure here. And while I’m hesitant to speculate on the mental state of someone I’ve never met, I would suspect your wife does too. And so...”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. What are you suggesting?”

“Well, it can go one of two ways. If you still love her...”

You do. Of course you do and Nolan must see it on your face, because he doesn’t even mention the second possibility.

“You’ve earned phone privileges. How about you use them. Call her, Dr. House. See if there’s still a chance.”

***

The phone rings five times before she picks up with a hesitant “Hello?” You had been just about to hang up and the receiver is four inches from your ear when you finally hear her voice.

“Hey,” you try to say, but your voice cracks and nothing recognizable emerges. You clear your throat and try again. “Hey.”

“House?” She sounds confused and you can’t really blame her. Bugging her at the hospital is fair game, but calling her at home just isn’t something you do. Ever.

“Yeah.”

Silence. Leaning against the wall beside the pay phone, you shuffle your feet and the sound of your cane tapping against the tile floor echoes through the dark and deserted hallway.

_Why make this so hard? Just talk to her,_ Nolan’s voice admonishes in your head.

“How are you?” she asks at last.

“Good,” you say. “I’m good. Better. The Vicodin’s gone; the hallucinations...” You pause, not sure how much she actually knows about why you’re here. “Do you know...”

“Yeah. You were seeing Amber. She was making you do...crazy things. Chase and the strawberry-flavoured stripper. Wilson told me everything,” she supplies.

“You nod, although she can’t see you. It was after you nearly killed your former employee at his bachelor party, that you knew you needed to seek help. You wonder if his fiancée ended up going through with the wedding. Hopefully you didn’t screw things up too badly for them. “The hallucinations are gone. I’m on SSRIs, Ibuprofen for the leg. Talk therapy. It’s...it’s hard. But I think it’s helping.”

“Good,” she says softly. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m calling you.” You sling an arm over the top of the payphone and rest your head on it.

“Well...” she begins.

“I owe you an apology. Lots and lots of apologies, in fact, but that would take more time than I have. So, I’ll just say this: I’m sorry I was such a lousy husband.”

“Oh,” she says quickly. “I wouldn’t say lousy. It wasn’t all bad.”

“True. The sex was pretty fantastic,” you crack and then instantly regret it. Without pausing, you continue on seriously, “You wouldn’t say lousy, because you’re a nice person. But you deserved better. You _deserve_ better.”

You want to add that you can be better, but it’s too soon for that. You don’t know for sure it’s true, for one, and for two, you don’t know if she’d even be interested. You want to see her, want to ask her to visit, but it’s too soon for that as well. You settle for asking, after a few minutes of catching up chit chat, if you can call again in a few days. When she agrees, you’re the happiest you’ve been in a long, long time.

It occurs to you later, as you’re falling asleep, that she sounded something like happy too.

***

Every couple of days for the next several weeks, you lower yourself to the floor beneath the pay phone in the deserted third floor hallway at exactly eight in the evening. Your stomach is in knots as you listen to the phone ring in your ear, every time more than halfway convinced that this will be the time she doesn’t answer. But she always does and so you talk about everything and nothing, and in some ways, it’s better therapy than what you’ve got going on with Nolan. There, alone in the moonlit hallway, you get to know the woman to whom you’re married and find that not only do you like the person she’s become, but that the person she was, the one you grudgingly fell in love with years before, is still very much present underneath the new look and the new maturity.

For all your worrying about how to bring up the possibility of a visit, in the end it happens so naturally that later you don’t even remember which one of you was first to mention it. Three weeks into the phone calls, the two of you agree that she’ll come to visit the following Saturday afternoon. The weatherman is calling for a beautiful summer’s day, so you ask her to pick up some real, non-institutional food and plan for a picnic on the grounds.

When she shows up on the appointed day with a large brown bag of Chinese food in one hand and a carryout tray of frappuccinos in the other, she finds you waiting for her on the steps outside. You’re not quite ready for her to come inside and see where you spend your days now, a little afraid of what she’ll think. You know how far you’ve come, what a good thing this has turned out to be, but what if she can’t see past the barred windows and proverbial men in white coats? What if instead of being proud of you, as you are of yourself, she pities you? You can’t take that chance.

You struggle to your feet when you see her walking towards you from the parking lot. “Hey,” she says when she spots you. “You must be starving to be waiting for me out here.”

She’s as gorgeous as ever, even dressed casually as she is in jeans and a t-shirt, hair up in a ponytail and oversized black sunglasses that hide her eyes. You find yourself fighting a sudden urge to pull her into your arms and kiss her, so instead you reach over and carefully push the sunglasses up to the top of her head. Her clear blue-green eyes sparkle at you even as her pupils react to the sudden brightness.

“It’s a nice day,” you say in response to her speculation. “And, yes I was looking forward to lunch, but it’s actually more about the company than the food.” She grins and offers you the bag, so you take it from her hand and gesture towards a picnic table on the lawn under a tree. “No trouble finding the place?”

“Wilson gave me directions.”

“So he, ah, he knows you were coming up here?”

She looked at you askance. “Yes. Was it supposed to be a secret?”

“No,” you say quickly. “No. Not from my point of view. I just didn’t think you’d want the world to know you were going to visit your crazy ex-husband in the loony bin.”

She stops walking and turns around abruptly to stand in front of you. “You think I’m ashamed of you.”

You’d forgotten how easily she’s always been able to read you. You look down at your feet and don’t answer. There’s no need. She’s right and she knows it.

“House look at me.”

You school your face into an expression that is supposed to tell her she’s making far too much of this and reluctantly meet her gaze. She reaches out and places a hand on your arm.

“I’m not ashamed of you. I’m proud of you. _So_ proud of you. I admit when I first heard you’d checked yourself in here, I thought it was some kind of scam, that you were just screwing with Wilson, or Cuddy, or someone and I was just glad it wasn’t me. But as time went on and you didn’t come back, and I talked to Wilson a bit, I realized you were serious. And House, I was so happy that you had finally decided you deserved to be healthy. The fact that you’re here voluntarily speaks volumes, and all our phone conversations over the last few weeks have just cemented it for me. You’re doing a good thing.”

You merely nod and start walking again, but it feels like a huge weight has been lifted off your shoulders. You don’t know why you ever doubted her. This is Cameron. Of course she’s supportive, of course she gets it. That’s just who she is and you love her for it.

You reach the picnic table and start doling out food. She goes around to sit on the opposite side of the table and pulls the drinks out of the carryout tray.

“It’s beautiful out here,” she comments, and she’s right. It’s the perfect summer day, not too hot, with white puffy clouds in the sky and just a slight breeze moving the topmost branches of the huge oak tree beside the picnic table. The scents of the flowers in a nearby garden blend with that of freshly mown grass.

“Yeah,” you say. “It’d make a nice park, if it weren’t for all the crazy people walking around.” You wink at her and she smirks into her cashew chicken.

Lunch goes by far too quickly. You tell her funny stories about your fellow patients, in between bites of chow mein and sips of frappuccino. She reciprocates with some from the hospital, and before you know it, she’s standing up, saying it’s time she should be getting back, and so you figure it’s now or never. You take a deep breath and plunge right in, saying the words you’ve practiced in your head so many times.

“I want us to get back together.” It comes out blunt, abrupt. Not really the way you meant it to, but it’s too late now. You hold your breath.

She just stands there, open-mouthed, and you know instantly and without doubt that you’ve made a huge mistake.

“Never mind. You’re not interested. I get it.” You stand and start shoving the remains of your lunch back into the paper bag from which it came.

“No,” she says. “I mean, I don’t know. It’s... this is sudden. You’re doing wonderfully, really you are, and I’m proud of you, like I said. But, House, it’s only been a few months. You’ve only been clean for a few months, and all of them have been spent here, in this protected environment. What’s going to happen when you get out?”

“You don’t trust me not to screw this up.” You spit out the words; you’re getting angry, but then so is she.

“Do you blame me?” she fires back defensively.

The question catches you off guard. Do you blame her? Do you? You think back over the last five years, all the times you let her down, all the times you put yourself and your addiction ahead of her and your relationship. Thanks to Nolan they’re all fresh in your mind. Do you blame her? Can you?

“No,” you admit after a long pause.

“I should go,” she says quietly, sliding her sunglasses down from her head to once more conceal her eyes.

“Yeah,” is the only response you have.

***

“I’m an idiot,” you announce to Nolan the next day, as you walk into his office and slump into your usual seat. “Good thing I’m already in an institution because I was crazy to think she’d want to get back together.”

“Why do you say that?” Nolan asks, not looking up from the notepad he’s writing in.

You don’t answer until he looks at you and then make a big show of looking him up and down. “Funny, you look just like my doctor, but you must be his doppelganger or something, because my actual doctor would have been listening to me when I told him all the shit I’ve put that woman through over the years. He would know damned well why she doesn’t trust me.”

“She doesn’t trust you?”

You just shake your head.

“In what way?”

“In what way?” For fuck’s sake, what the hell kind of question is that - _in what way?_ “In any way,” you grumble. “She doesn’t trust me to stay off the drugs when I get out of here.”

“Do you trust yourself?”

You pause and think about that for a minute. It would be so easy to slip back into your old ways the minute you get out of here. The memory of the Vicodin and how it made you feel is still a siren’s song that you can feel calling out to you nearly every minute of the day. Even knowing how your addiction has screwed up every part of your life, trampled on everything you loved, tainted everything about you that was ever good, even knowing all that, it would be so, so easy to fall again. All it might take is one bad day of leg pain, one patient you can’t save, one wrong word from the wrong person at the wrong time. Do you trust yourself? Of course not. How can you?

“No.”

“Good,” Nolan says. “You shouldn’t. It’s when you start to trust yourself, when you start to feel too confident, when you start to feel like everything’s fine and you don’t need to go to therapy, or NA meetings, or take your medication, that’s when slips happen. That’s when you end up back on the drugs and that’s when you end up so screwed up that you’re back in here terrorizing my staff. No one wants that.” He smirks at you and you roll your eyes in return.

“So, then what? I can never trust myself and no one else can ever trust me either? What the hell kind of life does that leave me?”

“A better one than before, Dr. House. A better one than before.”

And you can’t deny the truth in those words.

“And as for the people in your life mistrusting you,” he continues, “that’s something only time can ease, though probably not erase. Time, and maybe the knowledge that they’re not alone in that mistrust. You and your wife, you have that in common now.”

***

Two weeks later, you’re blowing out the candle on your re-birthday cake, packing your bags, and catching the bus back to Princeton. On the ride home, you repeat, over and over in your head, the plans you and Nolan have made for you, in order to drown out the call of the Vicodin you know is still hidden in your townhouse.

Amazingly enough, it works.

***

Life has continued on without you. Your department at the hospital has been essentially disbanded. Cuddy is dating a private investigator you once hired. Wilson is...Wilson. He’s good enough to let you move in with him temporarily until you feel more sure of your footing in this new life. It’s more consideration than you deserve, but you accept it gratefully, if not exactly graciously.

You try quitting your job, but it doesn’t work out very well and eventually you and Nolan decide that you’re better off employed than not. You and boredom will never be a good combination.

You have mixed feelings when Cameron is temporarily assigned to work with you again. On the plus side, it’s good to have a legitimate reason to spend time with her and the two of you have always worked well together. There is a downside, however. This is, you hope, a critical time in your relationship and you really don’t need the added layer of complication that comes from working together. You hope it doesn’t prove to be too much.

It doesn’t take you long to sense some lingering unease with you on her part. It’s there in the way she looks down at the floor whenever you catch her watching you and it’s even more apparent when she measures her words far too carefully before speaking to you. It becomes increasingly obvious, even to someone as dense about this stuff as you are, that if things are to work out the way you want them to, you’re going to have to clear the air. And so you ask her to stay behind one afternoon after a particularly uncomfortable differential where she did nothing but agree with you.

She follows you into your office and you gesture for her to sit as you close the door behind you.

“You’ve heard of the Serenity Prayer?” you ask her, after having seated yourself behind your desk.

She nods, but you recite it for her anyway.

_God grant me the serenity_

_to accept the things I cannot change;_

_the courage to change the things I can;_

_and the wisdom to know the difference._

 

“There’s more, but that’s the gist,” you conclude. “I still don’t buy into the God part, but the rest of it... it’s pretty good advice. One of those things that I can’t change is the fact that I’m an addict. I’ll always be an addict. You’re right to not trust me. I don’t trust myself. But I’m trying to do better, to change the things I can.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but you hold up a hand to stop her and continue.

“Our past, the things I’ve done to you, the pain I’ve caused you, is another thing I can’t change. I wish I could, but I can’t. All I can do is apologize. Before, when we were together, I would make promises I couldn’t keep about never using again, never hurting you again. Promises I meant at the time, but we both know how they turned out. I know now that I can’t make promises like that. I can only live one day at a time. I can’t offer you happily ever after. All I can offer you is today.”

You pause for air and she doesn’t hesitate to jump in, the words coming out in a rush. “I want you to know that I recognize I’m not completely blameless here either.”

What the hell is she talking about? You raise an eyebrow and wait for her to go on.

“In our relationship not working out, I mean,” she clarifies, smiling wryly. “Less to blame than you, perhaps, but certainly not blameless.”

You’re still not sure what she’s getting at and you say so, because the way you see it, she is in fact, pretty damned blameless.

She sighs. “Looking back, I can’t believe how naive I was to think beginning a relationship with you by backing you into a corner could work out well for anyone. I was pretty sure you had feelings for me, probably before we ever slept together, but certainly after, and I suspected you were struggling to come to terms with them. It was starting to seem like it would take you a lot longer to process those feelings than I was willing to wait, and even when you had processed them, the results weren’t guaranteed to be in my favour. So, when you came to ask me to back to work after Vogler left, I saw an opportunity to force the issue and I took it. I made you choose between a relationship you weren’t ready for and losing me completely. I was gambling that you’d choose the relationship. I was right, but at what cost?”

You remember the afternoon of which she speaks. You remember sitting on the couch in her old apartment, putting your arm around her, and agreeing to begin a relationship you knew would only bring her pain. From where you sit now, you have no cause to complain because whatever harm her minor manipulation may have brought you pales in comparison to all the harm you’ve certainly done her in the years since. But now is not the time to get into all that.

She looks down at her lap and when she speaks again, her voice is tear-choked. “If I hadn’t felt so guilty about how our relationship began, I probably wouldn’t have enabled your addiction for so long, wouldn’t have ignored what went on with Stacy, wouldn’t have allowed you to make the mistake of marrying me when I knew you were in no way stable enough to be making that choice.”

You’re thrown so badly by the knowledge that she knew about your brief affair with Stacy that you almost miss the implications inherent in her last statement. Almost, but not quite.

“No, no, whoa, wait just a goddamned minute here,” you interrupt. “What the hell are you talking about? _I_ didn’t make a mistake by getting married. You, on the other hand, could’ve done a lot better.”

She shakes her head sadly. “You proposed for all the wrong reasons. You were just so happy to be free of pain and have a chance for a normal life that you weren’t thinking clearly. I should’ve been your voice of reason, but I just wanted so badly to believe that you truly loved me that I let my heart override my better judgement.”

“Look at me.” When she does, you wince at the tears in her eyes and continue. “I did truly love you and marrying you was not a mistake. It was the best decision I ever made and the day I married you was the happiest of my life. I regret a lot of things, not the least of which is how I treated you when we were together, but I don’t regret that we _were_ together. Don’t ever think that.” You pause remembering your determination at the time before adding, “Besides, since when have you ever been able to stop me from getting what I want? You could’ve protested all you wanted, but I would’ve won you over eventually. All you did was save me some time.”

She nods in acceptance of that fact and you cast your mind around frantically for something to say to break the heaviness of the moment, finally coming up with, “And anyway, given how the leg thing ended up, I can’t think of any way I would have rather spent the pain free time I had left than rocking your world on our honeymoon.”

You’re relieved to see that rates at least a little smile. “Well, when you put it that way, I guess maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea,” she allows.

“Nope. Knew you’d see it my way.”

Smiling even more widely, she picks herself up out of her chair. “And on that note, I should probably get back to work.”

“Sure. But there’s just one more thing.” Here goes nothing. Or rather, everything.

She pauses with her hand on the doorknob.

“As you just alluded to, the beginning of our relationship moved pretty fast - we never really dated or took the time to truly get to know each other. I understand you’re not sure, that you need time, but if you ever find yourself to be interested, I think that falls under the category of things I can change.”

She nods seriously. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She leaves your office then, but just as you recline back in your chair, feeling cautiously optimistic, she pops her head back in. “And by the way? You rocked my world every time, whether you were in pain or not.” She winks, flashes you a quick grin, and is gone again, leaving you to think that maybe this might just work out after all.

***

You let her have her time, her space. Or at least, you try, but you’ve never been a patient man and as the weeks pass, you’re not above occasionally reminding her that you exist as something other than the guy with the markers who makes fun of her diagnostic theories.

And so early one morning, when you turn away from the cashier and spot her sitting on the other side of the cafeteria, you head in her direction without hesitation. She’s alone at a table for two with her nose in a book, her hand around a cup of coffee, and a half-eaten blueberry muffin in front of her. She startles when you clatter your tray of breakfast down on the table. “You’re jumpy today,” you remark, sliding into the chair across from her.

Lifting her novel up off the table, she shows you the cover, which features a shiny butcher knife dripping luridly with blood. “You caught me at a scary part.” She grins, as always far too cheerful for so early in the morning, but for some reason it doesn’t annoy you as much as it used to.

You smirk back, remembering all the times from before when she would scare herself silly reading horror novels and then have to sleep glued to your side to prevent bad dreams. You’d always grumble at her and tell her you weren’t a teddy bear, but the truth was, you never really minded. Especially since the close quarters often would lead to other night-time activities.

It seems she’s following the same train of thought because you notice a slight blush creeping into her cheeks and so you wink at her and remind her that you know all the best ways to chase away nightmares. You let her know she can call you tonight, or any other night, if she needs to. You’re only mostly joking. No, actually, you’re not joking at all, but for now it’s probably better for now if she thinks you are.

She rolls her eyes at you and closes the book, turning it face down on the table.

“So, what’s up? New patient?” she asks.

“Nope,” you reply, before taking a big bite of your buttered toast. You decide to allow the blatant change of subject in the spirit of taking things at her pace.

“So why are you here so early?”

Shrugging, you wash the toast down with coffee that’s already cooled to lukewarm. You’re not really there early; it would be more accurate to say you’re there late since you haven’t yet concluded yesterday’s work day. The hospital in general, and your own office in particular, feel more like home to you than Wilson’s tiny apartment. The fact that he hasn’t said or done anything to make you unwelcome doesn’t change the fact that you feel, most of the time, like an intruder. As soon as Nolan gives you the okay, you’re moving home. In spite of the memories that haunt the place, or maybe because of them, you miss your townhouse. You miss your piano, your couch, your bed. You miss having your own space and you look forward to the day that you can invite her over for pizza and a movie.

You don’t know why you’re so sure that day will come. On the one hand, she hasn’t really given you any reason to think she’s coming around. But on the other, she hasn’t said or done anything to discourage you either.

And then there’s the matter of the sparkling diamond ring and matching gold band on the third finger of her left hand.

“Why did you never file for divorce?” you ask suddenly. It’s a question that has been puzzling you for awhile and now the question has escaped from your lips without first gaining the permission of your brain. You curse yourself immediately, because this probably is not a good example of giving her space.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she looks thoughtful.

“I don’t really know,” she replies. “I thought about it a few times; even spoke to a lawyer right after the cancer thing, but it just never felt right.” She pauses and picks at the remains of her muffin, though no more of it makes it to her mouth. “I guess I would’ve felt like I was giving up on you, that I was admitting you were irredeemable. That we were all out of chances and there was no more hope. I didn’t want to do that because that’s never how I felt.” She smiles briefly and takes a sip of coffee. “Why didn’t you?”

“Easy,” you say, twisting the mate to her gold band around your finger out of sight under the table, and trying to hide how much hope her answer has given you. “I didn’t want a divorce. And I still don’t. Just so you know.”

As is your luck, your cell phone picks that moment to ring, bringing news that you do, in fact, have a new patient. You’re left unsure of whether the interruption was a blessing or a curse as the two of you abandon your conversation along with your breakfasts and head upstairs to the office.

It could be your imagination, or perhaps you’re indulging in some wishful thinking, but you think maybe she stands a little closer to you than necessary during your brief ride in the elevator.

***

That evening, after the patient has been tested, diagnosed and stabilized, she enters your office looking serious and downcast.

“Hey,” you ask cautiously, an uneasy feeling developing in your stomach from her demeanour. “What’s up?”

“I... I’ve come to tell you I’m leaving. Resigning. I’m going back to my position in the ER.”

Oh. You weren’t expecting this at all. “Why?” you demand, fearing your candour earlier that morning may have been a mistake.

“Well, I thought if you and I are going to be dating, it’s probably best that I’m not working for you.” She can’t maintain the sad pretence any longer and you can see her lips are starting to twitch. “So, will you accept my resignation, Dr. House?”

An answering grin spreads across your face. You rise from behind your desk, walk over to her and offer her your hand. “Yes, Dr. Cameron, resignation accepted.”

She takes your hand, walks a couple of steps closer to you and then rises on her tiptoes to kiss you gently on the cheek.

“See you soon,” she says and then, before you have a chance to even react, she’s gone. Your hand rises to your cheek of its own accord and you can feel yourself smiling.

***

When you pick her up for your first real date, you don't think you've ever been more anxious in your life. She saves you from the awkward knocking on the door, the _are you ready to go_ conversation, by bounding down her front steps just as you're getting out of the car. That and her nervous smile tell you this is just as important to her as it is to you and it makes you feel better that you're in this together.

You meet her at the passenger side door and open it for her. As she slides into the car your eyes slide unbidden up her form. She's even thinner than she used to be and there are a few fine lines around her eyes that weren't there the last time you looked at her closely. You don't have to wonder if you share any responsibility in creating them; you know you do, but this isn't a day for regrets. Either way, she's still gorgeous in her jeans and boots and you think that may be the same leather jacket she wore the first time you did this.

When you're seated behind the wheel and turning the key in the ignition, she asks where you're going. In lieu of answering, you reach across her, open the glove box and pull out a white envelope. You offer it to her and she accepts, opening the flap and peering inside. The nervous smile is replaced by a hundred watt grin as she reads the words on the tickets she finds inside.

After all, where else would you take her for your first date?

But first you have some other business to take care of. "Would you mind making a quick stop before we go?" you ask as you slide the car into gear.

***

The door creaks as you push it open and the sudden influx of fresh air sets dust motes dancing through the room, made visible by late afternoon sun streaming in from behind you. Leaving the door standing ajar, you stride purposefully inside. Four steps, five, six, and you make it as far as the middle of the living room before you begin to slow and falter. You stop and turn back, finding her in the open doorway, shoulder leaning against the frame. She smiles encouragingly at you.

You can do this. You can.

You watch as she follows you inside and closes the door behind her. Frowning at the light switch when it fails to produce light, she crosses the room and pulls open the drapes, sneezing when they throw off a cloud of dust.

The room is just as you left it, months earlier. Newspapers are strewn across the coffee table; a book is upended over the arm of the couch; your motorcycle helmet is sitting atop of a pile of papers on your desk. An unpleasant thought occurs to you and you glance into the kitchen expecting to see a stack of mouldy dishes but the counter is empty. Courtesy of Wilson, no doubt. He probably took care of them that first day after he took you Mayfield when he came back to get you some clothes. It's apparent that no one has been in here since.

You approach the piano first and run your finger along its once polished surface. Your finger comes away gray with dust. "Probably should've hired someone come in and clean the place every so often," you remark, more to yourself than her as you wipe the dust on your jeans. "Good thing I don't have plants." Taking a deep bracing breath, you lean over, open the piano bench, and shuffle through the loose sheet music inside. Pulling out the vial of Vicodin you find underneath it you turn around, planning to toss it to her, but she's right beside you now so you simply hand it to her and watch as she slips it inside her oversize handbag without comment.

"One down," you say. "Countless more to go. You might want to sit down."

She shakes her head. "I'll go around with you."

It would be easy to mistake her comment for a sign of mistrust, or pretend to mistake it as such if you were looking for a fight, for an excuse to fall, but since you're not you accept it for the show of support it was intended to be and move on to your next hiding spot.

When you're finished, she has enough Vicodin rattling around in that big purse of hers to medicate a small village of pain patients for several months. You don't ask what she's going to do with them. You don't really want to know.

She doesn't ask about the metal box on the top shelf of your bookcase, doesn't even glance in that direction, but you know she knows it's there. You know she's waiting to see if you'll add it to the collection in the bottom of her bag. You've been waiting to see the same thing.

You jerk your head in the direction of the shelf. "The box with the morphine. You can get to it easier than me. Then I think we're done. "

You watch as she retrieves the step ladder from the closet, pulls off her high heeled boots and clambers up it. Unable to resist, you hook your cane over your wrist and reach out to rest one hand on each of her denim-clad hips. She startles and looks down at you, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Wouldn't want you to fall and break something on my account," you say as innocently as you can manage. She smirks and turns back to the shelf, rising on tiptoes to reach the box.

"It's a nice box," she says, after putting one hand on your shoulder and then hopping down to the floor. "Do you want to keep it?"

You take it from her and turn it round in your hands. It is a nice box. You could keep other stuff in it. Nuts and bolts or spare change or…

"No. Toss it." You don't need the reminder. You thrust it towards her and she slips it into her purse.

"So that's it then?" she asks, leaning over to zip her boots back up and then giving a little jump as she hikes her overloaded bag further up on her shoulder.

"That's it," you agree walking back over to the door and waiting for her to join you. She does a moment later, reaching for the doorknob. Before she can turn it, you place your hand over hers.

"Cameron."

She looks up at you.

"Thanks. For coming here with me. I, ah… I'm not incognizant that there are difficult memories for you here too."

She smiles. "There are good ones too. This is going to be one of them." She turns the knob, taking your hand along for the ride, and pulls the door open. You pause in the doorway, taking one more slow look around as she waits for you by the exterior door. It's still home. You'll be back soon.

***

So much of it is the same: the roar of the engines, the crowds of people, the cotton candy, the beautiful woman at your side. But this time as you walk to the car after the show, you walk together, hand in hand. She doesn't sprint ahead of you and you're not fighting through the pain, trying to keep up. This time you're going the same speed.

This time, it's different.


End file.
